Chapter 5 #2
“Luck is like licorice; it eventually runs out,” Hutch states, arching his brow.
Not certain what licorice has to do with anything, but I understand his meaning. Luck is sweet but transient. It never lasts.
“This candy shop is empty then,” I confess as a waitress approaches the table.
“Need anything, honey?” Her voice is sweet, the question innocent, but the tension at the table jacks up a level.
“I just got us a round of beers at the bar, Prudy. Where were you five minutes ago?”
The blonde narrows her eyes at Tate. “I don’t work for you, Tate Haven. Not here.”
“Uhm, you kind of do. You’re a waitress.” He snarks back at her, a flare in his eyes. A bull about to charge, only I’m sensing the rush is to get in this woman’s pants.
Tate is a total himbo, and there probably isn’t anyone left in this town he hasn’t slept with.
Except, apparently, this woman.
She ignores him and turns toward me. “What would you like?”
“I’ll just have a beer.” I tip my chin toward the one Petty holds up. A local brew.
She nods, gives Tate another stink eye, and walks away.
“Woo-wee,” Petty chuckles. “I don’t know whether to drink this beer or bathe in it. That was one dirty look.”
Petty has always been a jokester, and goading Tate is easy.
“Fuck you, pretty boy,” Tate mutters, taking another sip of his beer, But I don’t miss how his eyes shift back toward the blonde waitress. “She’s a pain in the ass.”
“You wish she was a pain in your ass,” Marshall teases, leaning back in his seat.
“Or wants you up her—”
“Stop right there, rock star.” Tate slams his beer bottle on the table and narrows his eyes at Petty, who breaks into a peal of laughter.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Marshall adds, smirking, while Hutch just casually sits back listening to these guys.
For a hot minute, it feels like I never left Rogue River. Other than the tension coming off Tate toward me. And the fact that Trinity had a baby.
Fuck.
The waitress returns and sets my beer down, giving me a friendly smile before turning her back on the table, ignoring the darts in Tate’s eyes focused on her ass.
“She new around here?” The question is nothing more than making conversation.
Those darts aim at me next. “She’s fucking off limits.”
“Superstar race man here doesn’t need your girl,” Petty teases, squeezing my shoulder and jostling me.
“She’s not my girl,” Tate grumbles, a bucket of disappointment beneath the gripe.
For his part, Petty likes to think we share camaraderie because we both live in a fast-paced world. Rock stars have groupies. Race car drivers have pit lizards.
But there’s one fact these guys don’t understand.
“I’m married,” I snap, raising my hand up to show them the black silicone band around my left ring finger.
Tate slams his hand on the table. Petty stares at me. Marshall sits forward. Only Hutch gives me a knowing look. The corner of his mouth curls up just the slightest.
“I knew it,” he whispers.
“Knew what?” Tate barks at the big man sitting beside him. Tate always had to be in the know. He’s as gossip-hungry as the teenagers in the high school where he works as an athletic director. He slowly turns his head back in my direction. His voice is almost sinister when he says, “Since when?”
Does he think I’m remarried? What about his sister and marriage? Impossible.
“June third, fifteen years ago.”
I watch as the wheels spin in Tate’s eyes.
Petty lifts his hand, counting on his fingers, trying to do the math. “That would be . . .”
“Holy shit,” Marshall chokes out. “What are you not telling us?”
With a glance at our blue-eyed buddy, my attention stays focused on him. He’s the smartest in the bunch, and I watch as he calculates the truth.
His brows lift. His shoulders fall. “Why would you lie to us?” Hurt fills the question.
“Never lied to anyone.”
Maybe I hadn’t been as straightforward as I should have been, though.
The guys knew Trin and I were having trouble.
Well, three of the four knew there were issues.
Sharing about our fertility struggles had been difficult, but telling them about my feelings of failure relating to the situation felt impossible.
Like I’d be admitting too much. I’d be giving proof about how I never felt good enough for Trinity in the first place.
And they think I’m divorced.
I might have walked away from Trinity, but I did it for her. She’d been so unhappy because of me. Because of us. I couldn’t stand her mental suffering, and then I almost physically lost her. It was too much. I thought if I left, she’d find what she wanted, what she deserved, elsewhere.
But damn, it fucking hurt that she had.
Seeing her hold a dream, snuggling that baby, I should have been relieved. It’s what I’d wanted for her.
But also looking at her, cuddling our dream in her arms, was a bruise on my already tender ribs. She finally had all she wanted, and all I hadn’t been able to provide for her.
“Why didn’t any of you guys tell me Trin had a baby?” I argue defensively.
The entire table falls silent. No one offers Trinity’s relationship status or an explanation for the baby.
The bruises on my ribs ache worse, like someone is pressing on the massive black and blue marks, purposely making my eyes burn. I chew the inside of my cheek, fighting the anger conflicting with reason.
I wanted this for her. I wanted her to find happiness. To heal. To feel whole.
“Think you need to talk to Trinity about that,” Hutch says quietly, lowering his eyes, then flicking them back up at me, offering me a sympathetic look.
He’s right. Trin and I need to talk, but where do we start?
The silence between us has grown as wide as the miles that separated us.
The blame is all mine for walking away in the first place.
I might have called her at first, tried to re-ignite communication, but eventually it just got too hard.
Her silence. My unrequited pursuit. In a blink, three years were gone.
Luck running out like licorice. Time, too.
And crashing the house certainly wasn’t a good start to a conversation.
“Gonna need to find a place to stay tonight.” I’m simply stating a fact. I’ve got the camper still on the back of my truck, and I could have parked in the yard, but the house was too tempting, too inviting.
Home.
Tomorrow I’ll approach Trin with a clearer head . . . maybe.
Because my heart is wrecked in a new way. One I can’t fully process as thoughts come at me in fits and dribbles. How? When? Who?
“Go back to Florida,” Tate mumbles, taking another sip of his beer but not disguising his irritation.
“You can crash on my couch,” Hutch offers, giving me a sympathetic smile.
“Thanks, man. It’s only for tonight.”
Suddenly, it’s like I’m a teenager again. The lost boy in the lot of them. The one without a family, who roamed from house to house, avoiding home.
You’ll never amount to anything, just like your parents. I didn’t want my grandfather to be right.
And I never wanted to be a burden to my friends or their families.
But that’s what made these guys special.
None of them ever treated me like I was putting them out.
They’d been by my side, offering their homes, giving me their brotherhood.
Hell, the Havens gave me the longest stay, allowing me to share a room with Tate for our entire senior year of high school.
Russell and Mary Haven were afraid I’d drop out otherwise, and I might have, if not for their kindness.
I can’t think about Trinity’s parents yet. Her father was gone before I left, but I don’t know how I’ll face her mom.
But first, I need to face Trin again.
Tomorrow.
I’ll be waving a yellow flag, a warning to proceed with caution.
A crash was on the track up ahead.
Me. I am the wreck.